


Fifties

by deervelvet



Category: Gundam 00
Genre: Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 09:55:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16038089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deervelvet/pseuds/deervelvet
Summary: The fifth decade of Sergei Smirnov’s life had come with many changes. [AU drabble in which Sergei never dies, because I just want my anime dad to have some happiness.]





	Fifties

Evening drowsiness came all too quickly in the fifth decade of Sergei Smirnov’s life. Where his forties had borne a man with the drive and vigor of one half his age, all wrapped in glory and fast-paced moments of action and heightened emotion, his fifties had rendered him a beast of sore knees and a back that creaked like a sapling in a windstorm every morning. The time when he could operate at one hundred ten percent and relatively clear-headed on five hours of sleep seemed just yesterday, and all at once a lifetime ago. Now, he was lucky to feel well-rested after a twelve hour hibernation — unless, of course, it happened to be one of those nights where the need to relieve his bladder finally roused him out of sleep at three in the morning, and, upon returning to his bed, found himself perfectly wide awake. New wrinkles seemed to open up in his face like crevices in an ice shelf. One day, a patch of skin was smooth; the next, crow’s feet and forehead creases, not to mention the discoloration from past days spent in the sun. The well-trained muscles in his body were still there, but had become nestled beneath a soft roll of fat, and his salt-and-pepper hair was slowly becoming more salt than pepper.

 

“Old man,” he’d grumble to his reflection as the two of them brushed their teeth — their worn and slightly yellowing teeth — in perfectly synchronized movements.

 

After a life of strict military regimen and rigorous conditioning from his days in the rank and file until the day he as a renowned colonel with the notches in his belt and scars on his face to prove his excellence had decided he’d had enough, retirement had proven itself a whole new kind of challenge to Sergei. Twenty four hours of day were long when upwards of fourteen of them weren’t spent in a mobile suit or getting updates about repairs to a mobile suit or sitting in a mobile suit cockpit simulator or receiving information about a mobile suit prototype— And on top of that, unspent energy and unburned calories seemed to build up both figuratively in his mind as thoughts about how those wasted minutes could better have been put to use, and literally along his waistline. But still, a sort of total failure to launch left him thinking, only thinking about how he might have been spending his time but never actually acting on those thoughts, resigned instead to sit and read. And with minty foam still dripping from his chin, he’d ask himself, “When did you become such an old man?”

 

Structure. It was structure that Sergei lacked. That much was clear. Without structure, Sergei was a man who was completely executively dysfunctional. Recognizing the issue as early as the second month of his retirement, Sergei began making it important to set a schedule for himself: Wake at 0630. Have a small meal. Run five kilometers. Bathe and dress. If there are errands, go into town to complete the errands - it should be about 0900 now. Have a meal around 1100, no later than 1300. If there are chores to be done around the house, do them, but stop by 1600 and take some time to relax. Try out a new hobby, or something. Prepare dinner at 1830. Clean up and try to stay awake for at least three hours after eating. Bed by 2300. Monday through Friday every week.

 

There was nothing glamorous nor particularly exciting about the regimen he’d set for himself, but it helped. It wasn’t the high-octane lifestyle of the HRL military, but it placed some sense of order in his life as a free man, so it was enough.

 

In his younger, perhaps more naïve days, Sergei had pictured retirement quite differently. He’d thought, back then, that he’d spend the second half of his life traveling to places whose languages he couldn’t speak, sampling food and drink he couldn’t identify, adventuring in ways that all young people dream of, relaxing, learning what a life without the pressures and expectations of being the Wild Bear Of Russia was all about. Of course, back then, he’d thought he’d be sharing his retired years with Holly and that he’d have a partner to join him on his many adventures. After her death, he simply put retirement out of his mind, shelving it somewhere between “too far in the future to comprehend” and “altogether undesirable”. He’d still stashed money, of course, for the son he’d thought he would be putting through university. His pension plan was already more than sufficient, but even back then, Sergei had been a man of contingency plans. He’d wanted to make sure that Andrei would have as comfortable a transition from adolescence to adulthood as possible.

 

But Holly and Andrei were at eternal rest, interred in a small cemetery several kilometers from Sergei’s home at the windward side of the little country church Holly had attended as a young girl, she not wanting the ostentation she felt to be associated with those sprawling, obsessively maintained military graveyards and he never wanting to be away from his mother. And so Sergei’s plans didn’t go quite as expected.

 

And even if his nuclear family had held together instead of being wrenched apart by a sudden fission, he was just so damn tired that he wasn’t sure he would have been able to manage.

 

Sergei yawned and stretched, setting aside the latest book he’d picked up from the library and stretching his arms to work up a little blood flow. He caught a glimpse of the digital display on his watch as he raised it past his head. It was only eight thirty. Dinner had just been thirty minutes ago; it was way too early to sleep. But sitting around with a full stomach was a sure way to make that happen, so Sergei stood and walked to the window. He’d chosen to settle on the edge of a St. Petersburg suburb where there were just as many trees as there were houses, and where it wasn’t totally uncommon to see a pack of wild boar terrorizing a subdivision and tearing up gardens in search of tasty roots. This evening, the long light of midsummer persisted, and the streets were calm. The glow of the city was an orange splotch on the eastern horizon. No boar.

 

Monday through Friday, Sergei Smirnov’s regimen was the same. Each weekday was a near facsimile of the previous.

 

But the weekends — those were different. Those were what Sergei waited for, anxiously, like a kid waiting to open gifts. Because although Sergei didn’t have his son Andrei, and although Sergei had lost his wife Holly, Sergei had a family. They were busy, but such was the curse of all young people. Being busy was what young people did best, and only in old age would they know the ease with which winding down can come. And even though they were busy, they made time to visit on the weekends.

 

Tonight was Friday night. It was the weekend.

 

A pair of headlights flashed across the window as they rounded his driveway and Sergei couldn’t hold back the smile that sprang up in the corners of his lips. It would have been totally uncool to rush out onto his front porch, but that didn’t stop him from doing so; he had no façade to maintain at this point — that, in fact, was one of the joys of being an old man with an already-established legacy. He could handle being uncool.

 

“Papa!” Soma greeted, still disentangling herself from her seatbelt and climbing out of the driver’s seat. As soon as she was free of the car, she was pattering swiftly up the driveway to Sergei’s open arms.

 

“Hey, little cub,” he greeted, squeezing the young woman tight and feeling her strong, slender arms squeezing him back. He beamed ear to ear over the silvery crown of her head. “How was the drive?”

 

“Not bad,” Soma replied, her words muffled against Sergei’s shirt. “As long as ever.”

 

A second door slammed, and a figure loaded down with far more luggage than was needed for a mere weekend visit made its way up to join them.

 

“Were you troublesome for him?” Sergei asked teasingly.

 

“Mnh,” came a noncommittal noise from the woman.

 

Laughing, Sergei extended one of his arms, the other still smushing an all-too-happy-to-be-smooshed Soma against him, and held it out. “Allelujah,” he greeted.

 

“Smirnov.” Allelujah smiled and parked the suitcases next to the door long enough to join the group hug. It had been strange initially for both of the men to display this level of physical affection — Allelujah never having had a parent to speak of, Sergei’s blood son having always been so stand-offish, both questioning how hugging could fit into their worldview of masculinity — but it seemed to tickle Soma to no end, so they both learned to accept it. Still, they broke away from one another after a few strong pats on the back.

 

“Have you two eaten?” Sergei asked, looking between them.

 

Allelujah opened his mouth—

 

“Actual food,” Sergei modified his original question. “Not just convenience store junk.”

 

Allelujah’s mouth snapped shut.

 

“No,” Soma replied.

 

“Well, come inside. I made more shchi than an army could eat.”

 

The fifth decade of Sergei Smirnov’s life had come with many changes. In the fourth, he was a soldier — a damn fine one — whose name was famous among the HRL ranks. He’d fought not just for his country, but for a set of ideals. In the fourth decade of his life, Sergei had shed blood. Sergei had killed. Sergei had lost. He’d lost battles. He’d lost fellow pilots. He’d lost friends. He’d lost Andrei.

 

But in the fifth decade of Sergei’s life, he had gained. He gained a renewed outlook. He regained the peace that he hadn’t known he was so desperately missing, even if he did occasionally get peace and boredom conflated. He gained a daughter; Soma — and as he understood it, Marie as well — had signed the legal documents necessary to be his daughter just a few months ahead of his fiftieth birthday. With her came Allelujah, and so Sergei had gained something of a son.

 

And for all the tiredness and the aching joints and the bouts of insomnia, ushering his newfound family into a home that had become familiar to them, Sergei Smirnov decided that he quite liked his fifties.

**Author's Note:**

> I just... I really like Sergei and the whole lil’ HRL family unit (bear clan??). I also really wanted to write something non angst for once.
> 
> So yeah. Not really a plot here. Just an old man waiting on the kids to come visit.
> 
> I like to imagine that Soma gets so excited that she fronts for the trip and the first several hours forcibly, but that she and Marie work more willingly together to share the body after that. I think Marie would also genuinely love Sergei (we only get the brief glimpse of their interaction on the island) and want to spend time with him. Soma is probably much less of a headache for Allelujah these days (literally and figuratively) as they’re around each other more regularly. 
> 
> As for setting... Post-movie maybe? It doesn’t really matter. Some time when they’re not in CB full-time anymore.


End file.
